Two Days Too Late
by rawrful-lion
Summary: Sherlock spent 3 years trying to save John. It seems, though, that his attempts have caused the opposite effect.  Warnings for heavily suggested suicide and angst


Sherlock practically jumped out of the cab before it even came to a complete stop, shoving a wad of bills at the driver so as to reduce the amount of time was forced to wait outside of 221b Baker Street. Perhaps the enormous tip would make up for his less than savoury appearance. He'd done what he could in a petrol station washroom but what was one to expect after living rough for three years?

He strode towards the familiar building. His home. Where he knew John still lived. He'd checked his records a week ago on the mobile of some idiot who wasnt paying close enough attention to his pockets. Even after just over 3 years to the day, John was still waiting for him. There was even a few bouquets of flowers left beside the door, as if John knew he was coming back and attempted to have some sort of silly sentimental welcome back message. Maybe he'd use them in an experiment.

That meant he must have figured it out; his death had been a magic trick. Why else would a man so talented and loving like John not move out, find a nice woman and start a family? That's what he'd always wanted, anyways. The only reason he had not done it before (successfully) was because of Sherlock. But he had left, leaving John alone in order so that they may be together again. And John had figured it out. Oh, his smart, clever little John. How he'd missed him. Sherlock thought gleefully of how happy John would be when Sherlock finally walked through those doors. His eyes, his smile, even if he got socked in the nose, it would make his whole 3 year excursion to take down Moriarty's web worth every second without John, every scar he received in place of him. This was the moment that pulled him through every dark hour or dire circumstance. Seeing John again was what gave Sherlock courage to wake up everyday (or not sleep at all) so that he may be that much closer to being Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson once more. He'd never missed someone's presence so much, truly cared about another human being so much, that he had been surprised when John's absence knawed at him like a sore ache that hadn't healed with time. But now, finally, Sherlock was twisting his key into the door of 221b, using every ounce of self control to slowly and silently glide up the stairs rather than fly up it like a tornado like every cell in his body was screaming to do.

John's name was the only thing running through Sherlock's brain. _John, John, John. _A mantra, moving him forward.

He couldn't help his heart racing with anticipation, the cheek splitting grin that stretched across his face. He couldn't remember the last time he was so _happy_. This moment almost rivaled with the first time John had called him _amazing_ and _fantastic_.

He bit his lip, turning the knob to the darkened flat. John was probably in bed. There was no sound of movement within. A bit early for him, only 8 pm, but he probably had an early morning shift and with no mad man to play the violin till one in the morning, there was no reason not to get a proper sleep. Nonetheless, he'd just crawl into John's bed; hug him close, breathe him in. It was almost better this way - no long explanatory talks tonight. Just revelling in the presence of each other.

He swung the door open and froze. Something was wrong. He felt it deep down into his bones. The room was cold. He sniffed the air. His eyes roved the moon lit shadows of furniture. His mantra became panicked. _John. John? John?!_

John's scent, colonge mixed with cheap shampoo and lemon laundry detergent, wasn't strong in the room. He hadn't been here for a few days, then. There was a jumble of muddy footprints on the floor; nothing to signal a struggle, just frantic movement by at least four people, male probably, based on shoe size and stride length. He bent down and rolled a bit of the dried mud between fingers, brought it up to his nose. The mud was from outside the flat._ John wouldn't have left those there_. He would have cleaned them up before Mrs. Hudson had a chance to see them._ Why hadn't Mrs. Hudson cleaned them up if John hadn't? Who were these other people? _Despite her convictions that she wasn't their housekeeper, she couldn't stand a mess of mud. And these prints had been here for at least a couple days. _The same amount of time John has been gone._

_Where was Mrs. Hudson?_

Knowing he wouldn't find her, but suddenly grasped with desperation, Sherlock charged down the stairs yelling for Mrs. Hudson. When there was no reply, he banged on the door to her rooms but gave up almost immediately. He was alone. He was wasting his time.

He ran back up the stairs, this time making himself focus on the task at hand. He flicked on the light to the sitting room, looking it over, scrutinizing every detail.

The place was a mess. Mugs left on all the surfaces, take out containers littered the floor. Papers covered the table by the couch. _Not in a fight, John just didn't care about cleaning up. Strange. _  
There was dust on the bookshelf. _He wouldn't let Mrs. Hudson clean. Didn't want company. _  
All Sherlock's things still cluttered up corners of the flat as if he'd never left. A few items had been placed in a box that had been shoved to the side. _Attempted to pack up my stuff but gave up. _  
Experiment equipment absent from kitchen. _Successfully packed away. Maybe donated. Inconvenient. _  
His scarf lay neatly drapped over the back of John's arm chair. _Only thing placed with care. Sentimental significance. Why?_

_Mourning?!_

No, John knew Sherlock was alive. Didn't he? Why would he have his scarf out? Why would he still be mourning? He'd only have needed to keep the act up of distraught best friend for a couple months at most.

Sherlock's chest suddenly felt tight. Breathing became labourous. His brain had figured something out it didnt want to share. Maybe he just didnt want to know. But he always wanted all the facts, especially when it came to John. Now was not any different.

He wandered over to the coffee table, picking up a notebook John had used to document their cases. It had already been flipped to the last entry, John's doctor scratch heavily pressed into the page. Many of the pages before it seemed to have been ripped out. None of the casenotes were missing, though.  
There were spots on the last entry where the ink had run from small droplets of water. His eyes skimmed the writing curiously. His breath caught in his throat. The back of his eyes stung.

_No no no nononono. John, my John, where did you go? Johnjohnjohnnononononono why John no why_

A wave crashed through Sherlock's being, drowning his heart and sending him spinning underwater with it. The notebook slammed venomously back down onto the table, the entry still lying open. Sherlock hissed a harsh breath through his grinding teeth. Hands gripped roughly at his short hair. He took a step back from the evil book. His knees buckled, slamming onto the floor with a bruising crack. He didn't care.

_No_, his brain screamed. It wasn't real. Someone had just left it there as a sick joke. This was his John. _Nononono_. Without him even realizing it, Sherlock had begun muttering the words through his mouth, sobbing the name of his best friend as he lay curled and rocking on the cold floor. The tears were nothing compared to the sea of emotions rolling and crashing inside. Sherlock made no attempt to stop them or the spinning he felt in his head. He made no attempt at anything. He would make no attempt at anything ever again. Why should he when all his previous efforts had only led up to this? Where was the point? There was no point.

Sherlock lost track of time, lying on the floor he didn't feel. He didn't feel anything. The ache of John's absence had grown, had engulfed his entire being. It squeezed his chest and made his mouth taste metallic. There was nothing else except the lack of John.

And then there was a noise.

Sherlock jumped up to his feet lightening fast, hope dangerously sprouting in his heart. _John? Was John coming home?_

He flung himself at the doorway of the sitting room, catching himself on the frame to observe those coming through the front door.

_Mrs. Hudson. Flowers from the front step. Lestrade. Both wearing black. No John. Why black? Nonononononono._

Again, he hadn't noticed his mantra becoming a litany until both heads shot up to look at him, surprise and shock on their faces.

Mrs Hudson let out a strangled cry, tears immediately forming in her eyes.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, amazement coating his words.

"John. Where's John?" was all he said in reply. He was surprised by how calm his voice was. How normal he sounded. Though there was a slight waver that shouldn't have been there.

Mrs. Hudson's cries grew louder, her hands coming up to cover her face. Lestade remained silent.

"Tell me!" Sherlock yelled. All he saw was red. He refused to accept the facts in front of him. The facts were wrong. Lestrade would tell him the truth his brain refused to give and everything would be alright. John was at work. They had just been at a neighbour's funeral. _Johnjohnjohnjohn_.

No one said anything.

He charged down the stairs, grabbing Lestrade's jacket and jerking him an inch away from his face. "Where. Is. John." If he had to ask again, blood would be accompanying every extra second he didn't have an answer. And it wouldn't be his.

Lestrade swallowed hard, saw the desperation in his eyes, his face, his entire body. Everything about Sherlock screamed for help, for answers, for the answer he knew wasnt true but wanted to hear nonetheless. Tears were streaming down Lestade's face. His own were red and streaked. Sherlock didn't care. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." His hands came up to cover Sherlock's. Perhaps to comfort, perhaps to prevent him from being strangled. Maybe both. Sherlock _didn't care. _"You're too late. The anniversary was two days ago. The funeral was today."

_I'm sorry.  
Sorry Mrs. Hudson. Sorry Greg. Sorry Harry.  
Im so sorry.  
I'm sorry for not being stronger, for finding a way to live through this pain. But it's too hard. I can't find a purpose. I can hardly walk for my limp. My shoulder aches constantly. I just can't find my way and do you know how hard it is to live with no direction?  
It's stupid to let one man affect me so much. But he was my best friend. I loved him with my whole heart. He saved me when I was at my lowest point and showed me how to live again. And I guess he took that with him when he left, too.  
I've barely even been alive these past 3 years. I still can't imagine the world without that great, fantastic sod of a man strutting about. I didn't get to tell him how much he meant to me and now I never will but maybe we'll meet on the otherside. Sherlock never believed in that sort of thing but it would be nice. To see him again. Even in death. It'd only be heaven if he was there, of course._

_Anyway, I'm sorry. Not sorry enough not to do it, I suppose, but the ache just won't stop. If anything, it gets larger everyday with the knowledge that I really won't see him here in Baker Street again._

_I love and appreciate all you guys have done for me. Truly and completely appreciate it. I'm sorry, again, for the trouble I'm causing by leaving, too. Perhaps having both our deaths on the same day will make it easier. Maybe it won't. I'm sorry._

_I'll see you again soon, Sherlock.  
John_

"See you soon, John"


End file.
